


ring the bells that still can ring

by MistressKat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Gen, Other: See Story Notes, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:09:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn’t bring flowers; bringing himself is hard enough.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	ring the bells that still can ring

**Author's Note:**

> This was written way back during the early seasons, and was originally meant to be a part of a themed set. Posted now as, while I’ll never finish the whole thing, parts of it will work as standalones. Excellent beta-reading provided by [virtualinsomnia](http://virtualinsomnia.livejournal.com/). Title from _The Anthem_ by Leonard Cohen.
> 
>  
> 
> **SEE END NOTES FOR WARNINGS (spoilery for the fic)**

 

He thinks about waiting until nightfall, but it’s barely noon when he pulls to a stop outside the house, and his patience just isn’t what it used to be.  
  
The sunlight is harsh and unrelenting, and he gropes around the glove compartment, looking for his sunglasses, before remembering that they are at the bottom of Lake Galileo two states over. Goddamn water nymphs.  
  
The sound of the car door slamming is loud in the sleepy tranquillity of the neighbourhood. Lodged behind his eyes is a blurry ball of pain, throbbing harder at every step. He’s been driving for twelve hours straight now, unable to relax his guard for considerably longer than that.  
  
He runs a hand through his hair, staring at the screen door. In the window box, Bleeding Hearts spill over the edge, crimson and almost unnaturally vibrant. He raises his hand, hesitates. This is the right thing to do, it _is_ , just-  
  
The door swings open, the smell of baking drifting out. Well, it’s not like he had any other options anyway. He draws a deep breath and just blurts it out.  
  
“Dad’s on a hunting trip and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”  
  
The silence stretches for a few long seconds. Somewhere close by a dog barks, and the panicky desperation of it makes him twitch.  
  
“Well, are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in?” Missouri finally asks, hands on her hips. “I made those cookies you like.” She turns around and Sam follows her into the house without another word.  
  
Three days later, he’s standing in the middle of Missouri’s guest room, weapons laid out on the butter-yellow bedspread and his jacket already on.  
  
Sam picks up his knives one by one, meticulously wrapping them in oilskin cloth and packing them away. This one is for throwing; this one is for cutting herbs and rope; this one’s for flesh and bone. The smallest of them is no longer than his palm, the blade old and dull, absorbing light rather than reflecting it.  
  
“Careful where you point that.” Missouri is leaning against the doorframe holding two plastic bags.  
  
“I always am.” He tucks the knife into a leather pouch and ties the cords, thickly knotted and woven with tiny beads of human bone.  
  
Missouri doesn’t enter until Sam puts it out of sight, and Sam can’t really blame her. Used with the right incantation the knife will sever a spirit from the body. Used with the wrong one it’ll rip the curtain between the worlds into shreds.  
  
“Here.” She passes the bags to him. Both are full of food, mostly dried and tinned, but on the top there’s a box of cookies.  
  
Sam nods his thanks, adding them to the pile.  
  
“Are you ready?” Missouri asks.  
  
“Yeah.” They both know that what he really means is: _‘no, but it’s never stopped me before.’_ They’ve done everything they could think of; called every contact, collected every favour, tried every conventional and unconventional way of finding out where John has vanished to. Sam’s head feels like it’s been through a meat grinder; his eyes are bruised and dry. Missouri doesn’t look much better. All that psychic power in one house and nothing concrete to show for it.  
  
Missouri hugs him hard, and Sam bends down, allowing her to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Tell your Mama I said hello. Your brother, too.” She stays put, doesn’t follow him out.  
  
Sam hefts his bags, walks downstairs, through the front door and into the Jeep that’s waiting on the curb. At the end of the street, he hesitates for a few seconds, engine idling. Then he takes a deep breath and turns left toward the cemetery.  
  
It’s quiet this early in the morning, the steady _snick-snick_ of garden shears the only indication of life. The groundskeeper waves at him distractedly as Sam walks by, the gravel crunching under his boots.  
  
He doesn’t bring flowers; bringing himself is hard enough.  
  
Sam finds the grave easily, rests his hand on the cool granite for a while, letting his fingers ghost over the engraving.  
  
“Missouri sends her greetings. Guess you see her more often than me anyway.” He sits down, heavy with old wounds, the yellow grass crumbling under him. “Dad’s gone. Dad’s gone, and I don’t know what to do.”  
  
There’s no advice forthcoming, of course not, but Sam stays where he is, reading the inscription over and over. His mother’s name, date of birth, date of death, _Beloved Wife_. Then, in smaller letters, _Dean Winchester,_ date of birth, time of death two days later than their mother’s.  
  
The sun climbs up slowly, the hum of traffic growing louder, the new day rolling over the country in a wave of life and noise and chance. Sam scrapes clean the last words on the gravestone, low to the ground and almost hidden, smeared with dirt and blood from his ragged fingernails. _Greater love hath no man than this…_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** Major character death


End file.
